


The Order of The Halfstaff

by Maybethings



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Ansburg, Blood Magic, Dragon Age: Asunder Creative Writing Challenge, Gen, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Templars and Mages and Dwarves oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/pseuds/Maybethings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entry for Bioware’s Dragon Age: Asunder Creative Writing Challenge. A blood mage has escaped the Ansburg circle, taken hostages and killed three templars who tried to subdue him. Enter Eobert, a templar with a very specific intersection of circumstances, who may have the advantage needed to take the apostate down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Order of The Halfstaff

“They say someone’s coming from the Halfstaff,” one of the templars says to her comrade. Her words are quick and clipped between ragged gasps of air. She looks new; they both do. They’re crouching behind a mess of rocks, broken planks and scrub. Her helmet lies in her lap; a dent in it corresponds almost exactly to a large bruise on her temple.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the other scoffs, running a bloody gauntlet through his short-cropped hair. “That’s just a tale they tell the recruits to mess with their heads. They don’t exist.”

“Actually, it’s not,” I interrupt them, as politely as I can. “And I’m certainly real. Eobert Braegat, at your service.”

Both recruits turn to me and boggle, as if Flemeth herself has walked out of the forest to say hello. I don’t blame them. The Order of the Halfstaff is a secretive bunch, even among other templars. We’re hard to find, or even meet—and we like it that way. It keeps us useful.

“You—you’re—” the man sputters. His wide eyes are the blue of a fresh lyrium potion.

“Your backup,” I finish helpfully. “From the Halfstaffs, yes. And you must be Rosa and Samuel. Your Knight-Commander sent for me. Who’s holed up in that house?”

All three of us peek over our makeshift shelter. Beyond the magic-blackened trees, their leafless forms outlined sharply against a pale Funalis sky, is a run-down shack. Somewhere in there is a rogue mage, an apostate, escaped from the Ansburg Circle.

“A blood mage.” Rosa spits the words out like the poison they are. “And he has followers. They’ve taken hostages from the nearby farmholds.”

“The Order sent just two of you?”

Samuel scoffs, abrasive, ashamed. “There were more. We thought to negotiate with the bastard, but he incapacitated us instead. The rest of our unit are in there. He just hasn’t managed to catch us, yet.” I almost miss the dirty look he shoots Rosa.

“I would prefer at least four in a party, but it will do.” I glance at both of them, requesting their attention. “We will need a plan to approach this apostate.”

“Y-you’re going to face that, that creature?!”

“Well, that’s the reason I’m here…”

“But you’re just one person,” Rosa stammers.

“An apostate is just one person. So is a templar.” I smile and hope it looks reassuring enough through my beard. “One person with their heart in the right place can turn a tide. _Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker._ And we shall become his instruments. Now, drink these potions, both of you, and let’s talk strategy.”

* * *

I’m still not sure how the Hunters do it. I’ve heard tales of them disappearing into thin air, then reappearing to slide thin blades home between an unwary apostate’s ribs. But plate armour is just not built for stealth. Especially the way I wear it.

I approach the house, check the door for wards, take a burning sip of lyrium and check again. Nothing. “Vergil!” I call out. “Vergil of Ansburg! I’m here to talk.”

Silence. 

I push open the door, drawing my sword. The runes embedded at the blade’s base glow faintly, but they are of no help in the quiet gloom of this place. The fragile sunlight doesn’t extend very far into the building—except through some holes in the roof. A tiny girl sits in a puddle of light, too tired and frightened to even cry when she sees me. Her wrists and ankles are chafed from the rope wound roughly around them, and though she is stained with blood, none of it appears to be her own.

“Vergil!” I call out one more time. “This is your final warning! We have you surrounded! Come quietly and you may still be granted mercy!”

Then the spell hits, a wash of cold air and power that smells of iron and death and red. Don’t let anyone tell you red doesn’t have a smell. Red is exactly what blood magic smells like. Tendrils of magic bind me to the spot, wrapping me like a plucked fowl. My blade clatters to the floor. The power stings against my armour, but it does not kill. It is the equivalent of a knife pressed to the throat, flat and cold and ready to slip. The girl starts screaming in a Marcher dialect I don’t recognise. She’s seen this before, and not long ago.

Vergil appears from a back room, flanked by two apostates. If the lyrium in my blood is still working—as are the phylacteries I have been entrusted with—there are two, no, three more somewhere nearby. Guarding their hostages, no doubt. While his entourage’s arms are still whole, their magic still sharp and pure, he is a different story, with fire gleaming in his eyes, thin, prematurely greying hair and dark bloodstains all over his robes. Only some are his own. A small, sharp dagger is pressed to his wrist; power trickles from the wound and mists in the air, coalescing in the swirling, dangerous things that tie me down.

“A liar and nothing near a templar,” he grunts. “They must be desperate indeed to send you to parley.”

“I get that a lot,” I mumble, wiggling my fingers against the spell. It is of considerable power. He’s had practice. “And _will_ you parley?”

“Not any more,” he snarls. “Seven hours have passed since we made our demands for freedom. Seven men we have killed. If the templars do not let us free, I will make it seven men and a girl.” He flicks his jaw at his hostage. “They force our hand.”

I snort. “I’m not the one pressing your blade to her throat.”

“They force their blades to ours!” Vergil’s voice is a high, unhinged roar. His spell surges against me with his rage, prickling against the steel that surrounds me. One slip and I will be crushed like a grape. “They tear us from our families, strike and hound and threaten us simply because we exist! We are not people to them, we are things, plagues waiting to erupt!” He grins, showing stained, chipped teeth. “If they are so determined to see demons where there are none, that is what we will give them. You are in way over your head, serah.” He chuckles hoarsely at his little joke. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

I can’t help it. A smile tugs at my lips as I meet his gaze. “I could say the same for you, apostate.” I concentrate and throw my full power against the magical fetters, shrugging off the magic like a man shrugs off a coat. The spell shatters, and the moment both my arms are free I seize my sword—my grandfather’s sword, really—swallow a bitter draught of lyrium and bring the Maker’s shining wrath down upon the apostates’ shoulders. Vergil throws up a shimmering scarlet shield, but the others are not so quick to react. They crash to the floor senseless, and a stray tooth bounces past me across the floorboards.

“Impossible!” Vergil’s face is the colour of raw linen. “You can’t be one of them! _You can’t! You’re a dwarf!_ ” he screeches.

“Surprise.” It feels good, seeing him scrabble to pick up the pieces of his shattered brain. “More specifically, a third-generation surfacer, faithful to the Maker alone, and willing to lose his role in the world for a second time. Only such a dwarva can hope to become part of the Order of the Halfstaff. You’ll understand there aren’t very many of us at all—but they don’t need a platoon of the Stone’s children to take out apostates.”

I charge, head down, weapon high. Vergil fires a bolt that would have punched through a human’s heart with deadly accuracy, but simply grazes the top of my head. It’s a mistake he won’t make again. Another flurry of magic thuds against my armour, but whatever parts of my ancestors are left in me brush off the spell as if it’s nothing. It’s twice, then, my luck has held—but it will be skill I must depend on now, not blind fate. I push hard against the fugitives, electricity sparking through my blade and then them. The seconds count down fast as the lyrium drums in my blood. It fades quickly, as you might expect, but it still lasts long enough to finish most of the job.

One henchmage falls, gurgling, and then the other. Vergil forcefully whips his dagger across his palm, a deep and desperate gash, and the blood bubbles forth like a geyser. The smell of forbidden magic grows dramatically stronger, burning my throat. His companions’ corpses start to twitch and groan, but my pommel in his nose puts paid to that attempt. He crumples, and I tackle him head on. Both of us crash to the floor. He flings his skinny arm upwards, the blood still running warm and thick along his palm. That hand disappears into the aether, and reappears as a gigantic claw around my sword arm. With a single jerk, I am torn off him and lifted clean into the air. My feet scrabble for purchase against nothing at all. The demon-touched grip tightens. My armour groans under the strain and frankly, so do I.

“Say your prayers, templar,” the blood mage screams triumphantly, his teeth and gums stained dark red with his wounds. He is struggling, but his other hand is also fading off into nothing, and another demonic paw is reaching for me. Will it go for my other arm? My innards? My head? I’m not waiting to find out.

“ _The righteous shall stand before the darkness,” I choke out, “and the Maker…_ hrgkh! _…shall guide their hand!_ ” I drop the sword into my off-hand, say another prayer for myself, and hurl the blade at him. It buries itself in his breast and tears straight through his back, skewering him like a piece  of roast nug. His mouth opens and closes in shock as he falls to his knees and onto his back. The spell dissipates, and I land smoothly. No, that’s a lie. I crash to the ground with all the grace of a drunken bronto, and twice the noise.

“I suppose I didn’t mention,” I wheeze, limping over to jerk my blade out of his ribcage. “Old Grandpa Braegat was Warrior Caste, and the best knife-thrower that side of Orzammar.” He doesn’t hear me. Blood magic’s not very useful when your supply has dribbled out of your veins.

* * *

Out of eight captured templars, three are dead. Of the remaining five, one will not stop babbling about the divine gleaming of raspberry jam. But the rest will be fine. Eventually.

I see Rosa and Samuel one last time, both of them being showered in praise for fighting off the remaining apostates and securing the hostages’ freedom. We catch each other’s eyes as I’m leaving the scene. Samuel nods. Rosa smiles. Nice girl, but I’ll probably not see her again.

All around me the spirit healers are tending to the wounded, but I have to make do with bandages, poultices and herbs. Magical healing has never worked well on me, if at all. If the Maker intends to intercede in my death one day, he’ll have to do it more directly—not through the sanctioned hands of his healers.

I find Knight-Captain Harmon where I first met the two templars, watching with arms folded across his broad chest as Ansburg’s best clean up the last of the whole mess. The Halfstaff insignia, two crossed staffs and a tongue of holy flame, is stamped into his silverite gauntlets and the leather of his breastplate, not too far from the customary flaming sword. He nods at me and grunts a greeting.

“Had trouble?” he asks.

“Just a pinch,” I say with a one-sided shrug. We don’t waste words with each other, the Knight-Captain and I.

“Didn’t believe you were one of us, eh?”

“Nope.” I can’t hide a wry grin.

“Good.” Harmon laughs his bark of a laugh, and the braids in his beard tremble. “Now let’s get you seen to and stitched together, and we can all go back to standing in the shadows. Just the way we like it.”

“Um,” says a small voice next to me. I turn. It’s the farmer’s girl, rubbing at her chafed wrists. The spirit healers have fixed her up too, but the wounds still look tender and she still looks dirty. She scuffs the dirt with one bare foot, and I wait. Children at least have no problem with me, in my experience. It helps that we can see eye-to-eye.

“Thank you very much for saving us, Ser Templar,” she says in one breath, and runs off, having spent the last of her courage in those nine words.

But really, that’s all the acknowledgement I need.


End file.
